


Out Of Place and Far Away

by annalore



Category: American Football RPF, Broncos - Fandom, National Football League RPF, Patriots - Fandom
Genre: Concussions, Dubious Life Choices, Emotional Distance, M/M, long distance, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/pseuds/annalore
Summary: The 2014 season.  Things fall apart in Denver.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the November 2, 2014 game between the Broncos and the Patriots, except for the purposes of this story that game took place in Denver. Also for the purposes of this story, Wes was never diagnosed with a concussion during the 2013 season.
> 
> I started writing this over a year ago. It was meant to be just a short scene, and then just exploded until I had over 10,000 words. Then I stalled out and haven't worked on it in months, but I feel like posting something right now, so I've taken the first half and cleaned it up. Maybe this will motivate me to actually finish it? Maybe.

**Jules**

It's Denver. It's gotta be fucking Denver.

The game is over, but his head still feels both full and light at the same time and he breathes in wheezing gasps as sweat dries on his skin.

The cold of the concrete floor he sits on seeps through his pants, but his pads keep the cinder block wall away from his shoulders. His back is bowed, bound to be fucked up before he's done. But he waits.

He thinks Tom stops by for a minute, his cleats scratching on the ground as he hunkers down to offer a word. Thinks Tom makes the effort, but can't be sure through the fog of worry and exhaustion. Tom, above all else, does his job, and right now his job is to give blank faced interviews to the press.

"Wes ain't in there," comes a surprisingly soft voice. It's Talib, of all people, already in street clothes. Julian just stares, because God knows they were never close, and because he must've lost track of time if players are already clearing out.  He wonders if they'll send someone to remind him to catch the bus on time or leave him in the lurch because he’s an adult who makes his own decisions.

By the time he opens his mouth to speak, Talib is gone. Then, inexplicably, Peyton Manning is pulling him to his feet, folding him into his arms or maybe just trying to keep him from losing his balance. Wes would find this funny, he thinks, even as he's hiccupping and choking on air and getting snot on Peyton's cashmere sweater.

He holds on for dear life and inhales the scent of aftershave and wool and lets himself get soothed by a soft, southern accent. Peyton's wedding ring, cool against the back of his neck in counterpoint to the warmth of his hand.

There must be people in the hall, pouring out of the locker room, milling around, but he doesn't see them. He can't stop blubbering in the arms of the quarterback whose team he just defeated. Finally, Danny comes for him, but he refuses to leave until he gets Peyton's number and his assurances that he'll let him talk to Wes when he's ready.

He's not sure how he gets himself back to his place from the airport, but if he thought he'd breathe easier in a place where the air has substance, he was wrong. Nothing seems real. Nothing feels like home.

Denver. Denver, and Wes.

 

**Wes**

He wakes up slowly.

Denver. 

It takes him a moment to remember, when all he's aware of at first is the pain.

It takes him a moment, and that moment is long enough for him to reach across the bed, the name of a man who isn't there on his lips.

He buries his face in his pillow and tries to push aside the throbbing in his head and the hazy confusion that accompanies it. He remembers the game, but not the hit. The locker room, the concussion protocol, is a blur, albeit an all too familiar one.

Nothing after that. He thinks maybe he fell asleep, stayed that way for a long while, because he's not sure where he is now. Not the hospital. Not his own house. The bed is big and soft and the room dark and silent. If he strains, he thinks he can hear the peal of children's laughter and the murmur of voices.

Real or not, it's reassuring. He lets himself drift back to sleep.

He wakes to a hand on his shoulder. He thinks Julian, and then in quick succession Tom.

When he blinks his eyes open to the dim light and manages to focus on the man perched on the edge, it’s neither of them.  It’s Peyton.

"You think you can eat something now?" Peyton asks, as if this isn't the start of a conversation, but the latest installment of one he doesn't remember having.

He blinks again and clears his throat. "What?" he asks, fighting against the idea that he should be used to the confusion, that the gaps in his memory aren't new and shouldn't bother him.

"Ash picked up some soup for you. I left it on the night table here." Peyton's voice is low and soft, pitched to soothe. His thumb strokes the bare skin at his collar.

"My phone?" he asks.

"I've got it. Tomorrow, okay? Eat up and get some rest."

Before he can say anything else, Peyton pats him on the shoulder, gets up and leaves.

He's alone and he’s lonely and the person he wants more than anything is completely out of his reach. Fell out of his reach, if he wants to be honest, the moment he chose to come to Denver.

He eats soup until he starts to worry that he might be sick, then lies in the dark and wishes he were home.  Wishes he were with Julian.

Wishes that he'd never left him.

It takes a long time for him to get to sleep again.

 

**Jules**

He promised he'd wait.

He promised he'd wait, but but he's tired of waiting, can't stand it anymore.

He calls first thing in the morning.

The phone rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. He has a moment of breathless worry, verging on panic, before he remembers about the time difference.

He's a mess in practice and Tom hassles him the entire time. He's sloppy and unfocused and he feels like he just can't get anything right. When he finally fucks up a route and runs headlong into a DB, Tom reams him out before Coach even has a chance to and sends him over to the medical tent.

"Do you want to fuck yourself up too? Who does that help?" The words echo horribly in his head, Tom's voice flat, his eyes cold and hard.

But he's fine, just a twinge in his back from sitting on the floor for too long, just the usual aches that come from playing professional football. He's not Wes. He submits to the trainers anyway, lets himself be checked over. When they're satisfied, he cuts out before the guys have a chance to file back inside. Before he has a chance to run into Tom.

There's nothing to do when he gets home. Nothing but wait, and worry. He won't call again. Not when he knows what the ringing could do to Wes's head.

He'll wait, like he promised he would.

 

**Wes**

The second day is worse than the first.

Somehow, he never remembers that it always is.

He's stumbling to find a bathroom as soon as he wakes up, his first view of Peyton's house in the daylight hazy and confused as he tries not to puke on the carpet.

He crawls back into bed when he's done, pulls the blankets tight around him. He thinks about Tom tucking him in and telling him everything would be okay with a kiss to his forehead like one of his kids. He thinks of Jules, lying beside him, afraid to even touch in case it hurt.

Peyton comes in after knocking softly. His forehead wrinkles as he frowns, then he crosses to the windows and pulls the curtains closed, returning the room to dimness. Only when he's satisfied that no more light can be blocked does he turn to the bed.

"They said you needed someone to watch after you," Peyton says, as though that explains everything.

It hurts to turn over. Even with the sunlight blocked, it hurts to focus his eyes. "I'm okay on my own."

Peyton shakes his head impatiently. "The doctor will be by in a couple hours. Ashley is around the house if you need anything."

He senses, without even mentioning, that it will be futile to insist on going in to practice. He's not even sure he has the energy to try. He's not sure he actually could take care of himself, if it came right down to it. He buries his face in the pillow and sighs in defeat. He feels tears stinging at his eyes.

"Edelman called."

He lifts his head and looks at Peyton.

"It was before I got up, so I only noticed later. I thought you ought to know."

"I need to call him back."

Peyton shakes his head again, slight but definite. "Not until I hear what the doctor has to say. Besides, he'll be at practice by now."

The tears come then. He can't seem to stop them, so he just lets them fall, bitter and burning in his eyes, blurring his vision. Peyton makes a helpless sound, jerks his hand in an abortive movement, then turns and leaves.

He's not sure how he keeps surviving this, again and again.

Silently, he admits to himself that this time is worse.

 

**Jules**

It's night before the call comes.

He's passed the day lying on the couch, his phone balanced on his chest. Nobody else has called either, not Tom or Danny or even a telemarketer. He's been on the verge of getting up to fix a meal, clear his head, turn on a light for hours.

He doesn't know if he fully expects it to come at all, because he's startled when Rocky Top starts playing, groggy like he's been asleep. His hands shake as he answers it, presses the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he asks softly. His voice trembles, too.

"Hey, Mini Me."  Wes's voice is dry and soft, just a whisper of humor over the intended joke. He doesn't sound well at all.

"How are you feeling?"

He can hear an intake of breath on the other end of the line, can almost hear the gears in Wes's head turning, trying to figure out how to soft-pedal it. But then he sighs, chokes on it a little bit at the end. "Been better."

There are a thousand questions he wants to ask all at once.  They want to come tumbling out over each other, fill the void between them. He reigns himself in; he can't do that to Wes, not now.

"I wish I could be there," he settles on.

He remembers the last time. Remembers the constant struggle to make Wes relax, keep him from pushing too hard. Remembers the worst moments, when all Wes could do was lie in the dark, and he'd lie close and just be near him.

"I..." Wes trails off, clears his throat. He makes an indistinct sound on the other end of the line. "I want to come home," he says, voice breaking over the words.

He's heard Wes cry before, but this, a couple thousand miles away, breaks his heart. He rubs at his own eyes furiously. "You're always welcome. This is always your home."

If anything, that makes things worse, and he listens to hiccupping sobs and snuffling breaths until suddenly the sound cuts off in a muffled moan. He's reminded of how they got here to begin with.

"Hey... I can let you go if this is too much."  He doesn't want to, would give almost anything to keep Wes close in the only way he knows how, but he can't hurt him.

"No," Wes answers almost too quickly, his voice spiking in alarm. "No," he repeats, much softer this time. "Don't." 

He breathes out a sigh of relief and slumps down into the pillows. "Okay," he agrees. "Should I...?"  He trails off, unsure where they go from here.

There's a pause on the other end, which he knows is Wes thinking, trying to decide how far he can push himself. It makes him wonder all over again how bad things really are. 

"Just stay on the line?"

Bad, he thinks. He stays on the line.

He falls asleep listening to Wes breathe, the phone cradled carefully in his hand.

 

**Wes**

He wakes up still clinging to the fragments of his dreams.

He remembers being warm and comfortable in his own bed, not even a ghost of pain in his head. The covers rustling as Julian slid under then, pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. A whispered "I love you" as arms wrapped around him and they settled in to sleep.

The words, more than any other part of the dream, feel real. But he hasn't heard them in so long, not even in the stolen moments they shared together in the offseason. They barely even talked last night and it's still the closest they've felt in ages. He misses Jules so badly that it pulses in his chest like a pain.

He reaches out and gropes the sheets for his phone. It remains stubbornly dark when he tries to wake it up. It hasn't been charged since before the game, almost two days ago now.

He feels like crying again and he tries to force the emotions away. The doctor warned him that this was one of the side effects he might be facing. It's new to him. In none of his past concussions has he felt this raw and exposed, this close to breaking. The pain, the nausea, he can deal with, the drowsiness, the insomnia. This just doesn't seem fair.

He pulls himself out of bed slowly. Peyton stopped by his place after practice yesterday, packed him a bag. He finds his charger and plugs in his phone, then gathers his travel kit and heads for the shower. He's still in the clothes he left the locker room in, a pair of Broncos sweats that he's sure aren't his, and he feels grimy and disgusting.

He stays in there for a long time. Peyton's house never runs out of hot water.

They argue later, over a breakfast of Western omelets that Peyton made for them, frowning fiercely at his high end stainless range the entire time.

He doesn't know when Peyton became his keeper and not his quarterback, but he wants to go in to practice, and all Peyton has to say is "go lie down and rest" and "we'll see about that next week." The kicker is that he's stuck here without Peyton's help. Even if he had a car, he couldn’t drive it, and he's not sure of the address if he wanted to call a cab. He doesn't have his wallet, either, and it's just not fair.

He has to back down when his head throbs with a stab of pain so sudden and intense that he can barely breathe.

He finds himself being led back to his room, Peyton's arm looped around his waist. He doesn't understand it. Sure, they're friends, but they've never been close like he and Tom were, never had the type of relationship that makes this treatment expected. But Peyton helps him into bed, make sure the curtains are closed and the lights are off. Peyton squeezes his shoulder lightly and whispers "Be well." before he leaves.

The pain recedes slowly, leaving him breathless and exhausted. It never goes away completely. 

He takes a pill for the pain and wishes he could go back to sleep. Back to his dreams.

 

**Jules**

He wakes up in the dark, turning and reaching for Wes.

His phone starts to fall and he grabs for it, frantically, before he's even completely aware of his surroundings. He almost falls off the couch in the process, feels a stab of pain in his back. When he looks at the display, the call has ended.

He sighs and sends a text that says "I miss you, call when you can." He wishes that there was more he could do.

It's still closer to the middle of the night than morning and he knows he should get himself to bed, but he feels too restless to sleep. He gets up, stretches the aches out slowly, and goes into the kitchen to start his day.

It's noon and he's been on the bike for just over an hour when Tom shows up at his door. He's out of breath and dripping sweat everywhere, so of course Tom looks like a fashion plate. Sometimes he wants to punch Tom Brady in the face, and he's sure Tom knows it.  Enjoys it, even.

Tom breezes past him into the kitchen, so he heads up to shower. When he comes back, feeling decent but still unable to compete, there's food on the table. Tom describes it as lunch, but he doesn't dare ask what's in it. He eats, because he's starving, and because he doesn't have anything better to do. Tom watches him approvingly. He waits until the food is gone to say what's on his mind.

"I called Peyton," he says softly, fidgeting with his fork.

He looks up at Tom. Somehow, that wasn't what he expected, even if he knows Tom isn't petty enough to hold a grudge over something that happened at practice.

"I told him he'd better fucking take care of Wes if he knew what was good for him. I was pretty insistent."

"Tom..." He's not sure what to say. Even if Tom didn't do it for him, he's ridiculously grateful.

Tom shrugs awkwardly. "You know what he means to me. And I know what he means to you. And what you mean to me, Jules..."

He can't help but laugh. It's sudden and quick and it feels like it's been forever. "You're such a dork, Tom."

Tom grins at him. "Yeah, that's me. Dorky Tom Brady."

"Thank you," he says, leaning in, deadly serious. "I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to Wes."

Tom leans in too and takes his hand in both of his. "I know. You're my guy, I gotta take care of you. You're both my guys."

Tom doesn't stay long after that, but he feels settled in a way he hasn't in days. It's easier not to be paralyzed by the worry. It's easier to think that they'll get through this.

 

**Wes**

It's night before he can think of calling Jules back.

When his phone is charged enough to turn on, he sees the text, and for a moment it brings him back to last night. He feels like Jules is with him, and resting doesn't seem so bad. He knows the Pats are off today and he could call whenever he wants to, but he needs the time. He's not ready to talk yet.

When the sun goes down, he grabs a sweatshirt from his bag and a blanket from the sofa in the corner of his room, and goes out onto the balcony overlooking the back yard. The night is cool and crisp as the temperature drops and the scent of falling leaves is in the air. Peyton is grilling on the patio downstairs and the kids are running around in the hazy twilight.

He wraps himself in the blanket, curls up in a chair and just takes it in for a while. The sweatshirt he's wearing is an old one, oversized. It was Tom's before he stole it one day after practice, then Jules used to wear it around the house on winter nights when the temperature fell too far for the heat to keep up. He fingers the fraying gray hem, the Patriots logo, and wonders why Peyton chose this one to bring here over all his others.

He turns on his phone, shies away from the brightness of the screen a bit, and flips back to his messages with Jules.

"I miss you, call when you can." And before that, "See you on the field. Sucks that we can't catch up after." and "Just landed. Talk later?"

There's so much wrong in those, so much missing that he wishes he could fix. They never got around to talking, never took the time to make that call. Never made the effort to try to see each other while they were in the same town. It's been ages since either one of them did. 

 He takes a deep breath and dials.

 

**Jules**

He's asleep, face down in his bed, when his phone rings.

The nervous energy that's been fueling him through the day runs out some time between ping pong with Danny and picking up dinner on his way home. The drive takes more of his concentration than he knows it should, and all he can do when he gets home is shove his food in the fridge and stumble upstairs.

The ringtone doesn't even register as he answers it. He has no idea what time it is. It feels late, and he's alarmed. "What? Something wrong?"

"Did I wake you up?"

It's Wes. And, looking at his phone, it's not even eight yet. He yawns and runs his hand through his hair. "No. I mean, yeah. But it's not a problem."

"Are you okay?" Wes sounds concerned. It feels wrong to him; he's not the one who's injured.

"Just worried about you. I didn't sleep well last night."

There's silence on the other end of the line. Hesitation, he thinks. "Can we talk?"

"Yeah, of course." He sits up, tries to shake the cobwebs out of his brain. The room is dark, but he doesn't turn on a light. Doesn't like the way that it only makes him feel more alone. More exposed. His heart is hammering in his chest as he tries to convince himself that he's not worried about what Wes is going to say.

"I..." Wes takes a breath, sounds a bit unsteady. "I think they're going to put me on IR."

He frowns. "Did they say that?" he asks, trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

"No. But I know this is bad. They're gonna need my spot for someone else. Maybe not this week, but next, or after that..."

He squeezes his eyes shut. Part of him is relieved, but most of him hates it as much as he knows Wes must. The season is too short to want it to be over halfway through, for any reason. No matter what's wrong, you always want to think that you can get through it. "Have you thought about what you'll do?"

There's another silence. A creaking sound, then the scraping of metal on concrete, filters through the speaker. "I want to be with the team, go to meetings, do whatever I can. But that might take a while to work up to, and until I'm ready... I want to come home, Jules."

He breathes out a sigh of relief that he didn't know he was holding in. If Wes sounds close to tears, he feels that way himself. "I told you, you're always welcome. I... I love you so much, Wes. I miss you like crazy."

Wes laughs softly, shakily. "I dreamed that I heard you say that last night. I couldn't remember the last time it really happened."

He's taken aback. He wants to deny it, but he searches his memory and he realizes that Wes is right. Somehow, without him noticing, they've become distant from each other. They've been on autopilot for way too long, and he has absolutely no excuse for it. "I'm sorry. I'll do better."

"Me too. Me too. I still love you too, Julian."

He rubs at his eyes, then grabs a tissue from his nightstand. "You keep fucking making me cry, Welker."

"Because you're a wimp, Edelman." 

But he can tell Wes is doing the same, and it feels good to be on the same page again. "I could never fill your shoes."

"I'm sorry I had to leave." Wes is suddenly serious again, and it comes out of nowhere. 

He freezes in the middle of blotting his eyes dry, crumples the tissue in his fist. "I understood," he insists. But maybe he didn't, not really. Because it felt like a betrayal, and it hurt. "I shouldn't have let it get between us."

"No. I should have considered you more. I should have... I've... I've been selfish, Jules, and I've done some things I shouldn't have. I don't know..."

"Hey. Hey... Didn't I just say that I love you? I forgive you. I don't care if there was someone else."

It's out of his mouth almost before he thinks it. But it feels like the truth, that he would be willing to wipe the slate clean if it meant that they'd be okay, that they'd be together.

"No. There's nobody but you. It's... fuck." Wes cuts off, then releases a huff of air that bursts like static against the speaker. 

"Your head hurts. We can talk about this later."

"Are you sure?"

Now that he's paying attention, he notices that Wes is starting to sound weak and tired. "Absolutely. Whatever it is, it's okay. It'll keep."

"I hate feeling like this. I hate being like this."

"I know. But it won't be forever, babe. And you'll be home soon and I can look after you."

"I don't need--" Wes cuts off, then sighs. "I'm looking forward to it. But it might be a couple weeks. I don't know. I'm staying with Peyton for now."

Hearing that sets him at ease. He doesn't know how he's been imagining Wes -- alone in his house in Denver, lying in bed in pain with no one to look out for him -- trying to do too much and only stopping when he finally can't stand the pain -- but he's glad there's someone there. He's so grateful to Tom, and to Peyton.

"We're on a bye. I could come out there over the weekend."

He's hesitant, suddenly unsure about his place in Wes's life. But the response, the "Yes," is instant. It's exactly what Wes sounds like when wants something so badly that he's afraid the offer will be taken away.

They stay on for a bit longer, talking about nothing in particular and, at times, nothing. He feels warm and loved and together in a way that makes him realize how long it really has been. He doesn't want to let it go now that he has it back, but eventually Peyton comes up to call Wes down to dinner, and he's starving too.

He makes sure to tell Wes he loves him and misses him before he hangs up. Makes sure to say he'll call tomorrow.

 

**Wes**

They eat out on the back patio, just Peyton and him.

He sees the kids briefly as they're being herded upstairs by their mother. They stare up at him with wide eyes as Peyton gives them each a kiss goodnight.

"They're a little rambunctious lately," Peyton says by way of explanation. "I was worried it would be too much for you. They already ate."

He doesn't mind. He's never been great with kids anyway, and if he thinks Peyton should be with his family, he's also glad not to be alone. He's glad to be enjoying a meal with a friend instead of shut up in the dark by himself.

The night has grown even colder, but there's a space heater down here that keeps the chill away. He can feel winter coming on, and with it, the depth of the season. The race, and the playoffs. The games that he won't be a part of. All of a sudden, his place in Denver seems tenuous, unsure. A contract up in March, a season ending injury, another year on the wrong side of thirty.

Whatever peace, whatever clarity, he gained from talking to Julian threatens to abandon him, because in this moment he can see the end and he doesn't want to. He doesn't want it to all be over. All he's dreamed about, all he's worked for all these years... This could be it.

Peyton touches his arm then, lightly. He looks up into concerned eyes, and for the moment his world snaps back into place. He's not gone yet. He's still in Denver, still signed to a team. And Jules will be here soon. He's still loved, and that's all that really matters. That's what will last.

The days start to pass faster. He manages to get into a routine. Wake up early, have breakfast with Peyton. Lie down for a bit, text with Jules, who must be getting up disgustingly early to fit it in. He walks on the treadmill in Peyton's exercise room if he's feeling okay. Makes himself lunch, maybe talks to Ashley if she's home. He has a lot of time to just sit and think, especially since he's trying not to sleep as much.

But he's always so tired. It's easier, sometimes, to waste the afternoon hours napping then having to deal with the endless boredom. The pain in his head is a constant ebb and flow, but it's mostly manageable if he keeps the light low and doesn't get worked up or concentrate too hard, which eliminates most forms of entertainment.

By far, the highlight of his day is when Julian calls. They spend most of the time talking about nothing, whispering reminiscences of good times, making plans for the weekend, saying they love and miss each other so many times it becomes ridiculous but neither of them cares. He hates to go, but he knows Jules still has a life outside of them, practice notes to go over, film to watch. And he has dinner with Peyton.

Peyton talks to him a little about football. He's cautious, careful to watch him and see if he's getting too taxed. But he's not, he enjoys it. It doesn't even seem like work. It reminds him of the old days, hanging out with Tom, thinking of ways to make each other better, the team better. He never thought he wanted to be a coach, but he does love this part, breaking down plays, designing new ones. It's fun in a way that things haven't been fun for a while. It reminds him of why he's given his life to this game.

Then, on Friday night, Peyton sits him down to dinner with the whole family, and it feels like a big deal. He's leaving in the morning. Julian's flying in, picking him up and driving him to his own house to spend the weekend while Peyton flies out to Oakland with the team. He's not sure if he'll be back here Monday. He feels like he can take care of himself now, but he's not sure that he wants to be alone. If he'll still be welcome to stay now that he's improved so much.

Ashley has prepared some of his favorite foods, and she makes a lovely and gracious host. Marshall and Mosley are yawning and quiet at the table -- it's a little later than usual for them, and Peyton says they've been running around all day -- but they're perfectly mannered, little clones of their father. He eats until he's full, then sits back, drowsy and happy, and listens to small talk. There's cake and ice cream afterwards that he has to find room for, and that perks up the kids, too.

When it's time for them to go to bed, Mosley scurries over to him and hugs his leg. "Get better, Mr. Wes," she says, so earnestly it hurts. The look on Peyton's face, torn between amusement and pride and pure love... it leaves him breathless. Marshall follows her lead and nearly bowls him over. He lays his hands on their heads and his heart feels so full. He wants Jules.

He should be letting him get ready for his flight, get some sleep before getting up to leave for the airport before dawn, but he calls when he gets back upstairs. He can't put into words why he needs to talk to him, though, isn't ready to ask for the kind of future he's starting to see.

But he's there. He's there, and there's plenty of time, and that's enough for now.

 

**Jules**

Denver. Only hours from now, he'll be in Denver with Wes.

Except he can't sleep. Even after talking to Wes, he's jittery and unsettled. Especially after talking to Wes.

The past couple days have been great, and he's been running on fumes and sappy texts and above all, caffeine. He's been falling in love all over again, and the guys, even Tom, have been teasing him about how disgustingly happy he's been. But now... he feels like they're hovering at the edge of something, a change that he's not sure he'll like.

After tossing and turning for what seems like hours but probably isn’t even one, he rolls out of bed and wanders downstairs to the kitchen. The light is already on, and he finds Danny sitting at the table with his iPad, his leg up on a chair, a bag of ice perched on his thigh.

"That hurt?" he asks.

Danny yawns and looks up at him blearily. "Aches a bit. Just waiting for the Advil to kick in."

Danny's supposed to be driving him to the airport in the morning. It's why he's staying the night, so the distance is more manageable and he doesn’t have to leave before dawn. They're both going to be a mess at this rate. He goes over to the fridge. "Want anything?"

"Water's good." 

He grabs a water and a opens up a beer for himself, then goes to the table looks over Danny's shoulder to see what he's watching. It's the Patriots, but it's... it's Wes, he realizes with a start. Wes, with Gronk and Hernandez in the lineup. He drops the water on the table. Danny tilts his head back, frowns up at him, then pauses the video. "You okay?"

He sits and takes a swig of his beer. He's not sure what to say. It's at times like this that it strikes him that Danny doesn't know Wes, not really. Sure, they've met, but they were never around at the same time. And he's never told Danny anything. "You're watching some old stuff."

Danny nods. "Yeah. I, uh, earlier..."

Earlier. When his phone rang while they were in the basement playing ping pong and he said he had to take the call. When he wandered away, then upstairs, to whisper sweet nothings to Wes. He's not even sure if Danny knows that it was Wes -- he changes the ringtone often enough -- but he's going back to Denver tomorrow on his precious days off. He shrugs and takes another drink.

Danny frowns. "You're my best friend, Jules. Do you think I'd judge you?"

He really doesn't know. Danny sounds sympathetic, maybe a little hurt, but not judgmental. It's just that he's so used to hiding, so used to being scared of losing what he has. He's never even considered telling anyone. But he wants Wes, wants a future with him and a life that doesn't end when football does. Isn't part of that being able to share their relationship with his closest friends?

"I love him," he says. He wants it to be proud, defiant, but he curls in on himself, shoulders hunched, bracing for the hit.

Danny just laughs softly. "Yeah, I know." He looks up. Danny is smiling a bit, a faraway look in his eyes. "I'm kind of jealous." He opens his mouth, trying to find something to say, but then Danny shakes himself out of it. "You want to play a couple more rounds?"

He wishes they could, but Danny has dark smudges under his eyes, looks bone weary, not to mention the ugly bruise on his leg. "And take advantage of your injury?" He gestures to his beer. "I'll just finish this and get to bed. Play the film."

They watch the game together, and he feels something inside himself loosen and unwind. Only a few hours now, and he'll be with Wes.

 

**Wes**

He tries so hard not to have a setback.

He takes a couple Tylenol before he goes to bed, and that dulls the headache enough that he sleeps well. But then, he never has much of a problem sleeping recently.

He lets himself relax in bed when he wakes up, takes the time to adjust to the day. His stomach doesn't feel great, but he's had so little nausea he doesn't worry. He showers, then packs his bag with the stuff he's managed to spread out across the room. By the time he's done, he had a text from Jules saying he's on his way, which he grins over like a dope. He goes downstairs earlier than usual and tries to cook breakfast for Peyton as a thank you.

It's nothing fancy, the same eggs, bacon, and toast they've had every morning, but the smell gets to him. He has to run to the bathroom to throw up downstairs, then again a few minutes later as he's going to lie down. He takes the anti-nausea medication the doctor gave him, then has to take the one for anxiety that he's been avoiding.  He can't stop worrying that Jules will take one look at him and say he has to stay here, that he's not well enough for them to be together.  His hands are shaking so badly he can barely get the pills out of the bottle. He has trouble remembering the dosage, so he takes two.  It all leaves him with a vicious headache and he breaks down and takes the heavy duty painkillers, too.

The pills dull his senses to the point where he's not quite sure why he's crying himself back to sleep before dawn.

The next thing he knows, someone's rubbing his back, running their fingers through his hair. He thinks he's dreaming, because he knows that's not Peyton. Slowly, he turns onto his back, blinks open his eyes. It's Julian, but it can't be, because Julian isn't coming until later. Then he notices that the light in the room has shifted, become brighter, even through the heavy curtains. It is later.

He still feels heavy, dull, but there's room beneath the fog for a flutter of panic that doesn't quite make it to the surface. Julian leans down, presses the gentlest of kisses to his forehead, and things settle. "Feeling better?" he asks, his voice a low murmur.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. Jules waits patiently while he experiments with the shapes of words, not sure what he wants to say or how to say it. Finally, he nods. "Can we go home now?"

Julian shakes his head slightly. "In a little bit. Peyton said you had a hard morning?"

He realizes he hasn't seen Peyton since last night and wonders what he made of the half cooked breakfast and empty kitchen. If he came up here to check on him. It's been hours, he would have had to... And Jules is here now, he would've had to tell him something when he showed up at the door.

"Shh..." Julian lays a hand on his cheek and he realizes he's in danger of hyperventilating.

He closes his eyes, tries to breathe. He concentrates on the feeling of Julian's hand, skin rough and warm against his. "Felt sick. I took some stuff." He snaps his eyes open and feels a bit dizzy.  Julian hasn't moved, which means he's already looked, that he already knows what he took and what they were each for. "I'm okay now."

He tries to get up, but he gets pushed back against the mattress. "Stay." Julian pauses until he's given up on trying to move. "You felt sick, or you got sick?"

"Got sick. Twice. Didn't want to ruin things for you."

"You didn't ruin anything. You couldn't. I'm here for you, to take care of you."

"I'm a mess, Jules. You don't deserve this."

Julian shakes his head in frustration, then lies down next to him, rests his head on the pillow next to his. He's as close as he can be without touching. "I love you. I can handle it."

He hopes so, because he's not sure he can handle it himself. He needs Julian. Even now, he feels too far away. He turns onto his side, curls into Julian's chest. "Then hold me.  I'm not made of glass and I don't know if I can do this if you treat me that way."

Julian shifts closer, wraps his arms around him, so carefully. He tries to relax, tries to let the worry and frustration go, but the pills must be wearing off, because it keeps trying to claw its way to the surface. He starts shaking, blinking back tears. Julian holds on tighter, presses him in so he's close and contained.

It's a relief to let go. He shouldn't have pushed. If he breaks, Jules will hold him together. He should have trusted in that.


End file.
